


Divine Love

by badskippy



Series: The Divine Life of Bilbo Baggins [6]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Angst, Heartache, M/M, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 21:25:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1526324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/pseuds/badskippy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin's time has come</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divine Love

**Author's Note:**

> **Khuz-dul Translations**  
>  adad – father  
> amad - mother  
> mim nidoyuh – Little Boy-Mine = (my little boy)  
> sanâzyung – perfect (true/pure) love = (a Dwarf’s One)

* * *

 

 

            The last thing he remembered was closing his eyes. He only meant to rest them for Mahal’s sake! Still, it could have been worse, he guessed.

            He just wished he could bloody see—all this damn fog or mist or smoke--whatever the hell it was, all round him. _Bloody pain in the damn arse is what it is!_ Dwalin thought to himself. _Why the bloody hell can’t shit just be easy!_

            He looked down at himself and realized that he was dressed—well, _nice._ He huffed out a sigh. He _hated_ getting all dressed up. His sleeveless tunic was not bad; dark green, like moss and he had to admit the black pants were comfortable and the boots were good; heavy and steeled toed but no fur—not like his old ones, but they’d do. He wore black leather armbands as well as wide, black leather wrist cuffs.

            The mist was clearing a bit but he still couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him. But he could hear now what he thought sounded like a hammer and anvil to be honest. _What the frig?!_

            “Where in the name of Mahal’s hairy arse am I?!”

            “In his forge, Dwalin, son of Fundin,” answered a deep rumbling voice dryly.

            Whoops.

            “Sorry my lord—I didn’t think anyone was listening.”

            “Obviously,” Lord Mahal commented tersely. “Were you under the impression that the hammer struck the anvil on its own?”

            Dwalin shrugged. “Don’t know—mighta been one of them infernal machine those damn Men are always fond of.”

            “Well, it’s not.”

            Dwalin just nodded, not realizing, nor caring, that Lord Mahal would not be able to see him nodding.

            “Oh, hey!” Dwalin shouted out, his mind finally catching up. “I’m dead then?!”

            “Well spotted, my child.” There came a laugh and that kind of pissed Dwalin off.

            “Well, it took long enough!” Dwalin quipped.

            More laughter. “Are you saying you wanted to die sooner?”

            “I don’t know about _that_ ,” Dwalin said. “But three hundred and forty years?! Thought you forgot about me, to be honest.”

            “I don’t forget about _anything_.”

            Dwalin grunted in reply as the mist cleared completely.

            Dwalin found he was, indeed, standing in a great forge and before him was his maker. The Dwarf-Lord had his great mass of dark brown hair loose except to two thick braids from this temples that were pulled back around to the back of his head while his long full beard was filled with a multitude of small braids, each with a bead or gem at the clasp. His upper body and arms were bare while he only wore a leather blacksmith’s apron, pants and boots.

            Dwalin could see that his Lord was indeed working at his anvil and— _was that—is he making a flower?! Bloody hell; have the Hobbit’s invaded the Halls or something?_

            Lord Mahal raised his head and shot Dwalin an arched eyebrow that clearly said not to question him. “This is a gift for my wife,” the great-smith said with an almost dangerous edge to it. “I will kindly ask you not to comment further and _not_ to bring up the subject of Hobbits with me.”

            Dwalin was confused but didn’t push it. Probably Thorin has been bugging Mahal about seeing Bilbo or something. _Yeah, like that’s going to happen._

            “Oh, hey!” Dwalin turned and found he was looking into a narrow floor length mirror of polished silver or steel. He was staring at a younger him—he looked like he had, just before Azanulbizar, and not a scar on him! His hair was black once more and he had his Mohawk! _Mahal’s balls, I look good!_    He turned his head to both sides; he always did like this look. His beard was nice and full too—no braids.

            Only thing, he wished he had a tie or something, he would like to have his hair gathered. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, then he realized that he was holding a leather tieback in his hand. He gathered his long mass of black hair and pulled it into a free ponytail just below the Mohawk. _That’s better._

Dwalin flexed his arms and liked what the bands did for his muscles— _Ori would love this_.

            Suddenly Dwalin wasn’t feeling so great anymore.

            He turned back around and found Lord Mahal standing there, quietly looked at him.

            “I wondered how long it would take,” The Dwarf-Lord said softly.

            “I’m afraid, My Lord,” Dwalin said looking down.

            “Why do say that?” Lord Mahal asked with a narrowed gaze. “You fought more battles and survived more injuries than most Dwarfs should have to.”

            “True,” Dwalin conceded. “But when it comes to Ori—I could face Orcs and battle Wargs but when I look in his eyes, I—”

            “He made you fear?”

            “Only in so far as to be worthy of him.”

            “You cannot hide here,” Lord Mahal said as he drew himself to his full height. “You cannot avoid that which you wish to do so; you must confront your battles head-on, Dwalin, son of Fundin. Whatever the out-come, you must face your fears.”

            Dwalin raised his head and squared his shoulders. He knew his Lord to be correct. He would face his future, even it means heartbreak. Dwalin nodded his agreement and at the same moment, a hidden door behind him opened to reveal a long hallway of polished white marble.

            “Go, son of Fundin,” Lord Mahal said, gesturing towards the corridor. “Reunite with your kith and kin.”

            Dwalin started down the long white hallway. He stepped slowly at first but soon he quickened his pace and before he knew it, the shining mithril doors at the opposite end opened and Dwalin was blinded for a moment as light poured in from the other side.

            This time, it was only a moment or two until his vision cleared and he was greeted by a great host of Dwarfs before him. Uncles and aunts, cousins and relations, friends and comrades all slapping him on the back or shoulders—welcoming him to The Halls. As he worked his way through, the crowd thinned until he faced his parents.

            “Welcome, son,” Fundin said as he placed his right hand on his youngest son’s left shoulder.  So alike, if it weren’t for Dwalin’s Mohawk and deep green eyes it would have been nigh impossible to tell the two bear-like Dwarfs apart.

            “Adad,” Dwalin replied, mimicking his father’s gesture with his right hand on Fundin’s left shoulder.

            “You lived a great and honorable life my son.”

            “I’d hope to make you proud.”

            “I was always proud.” Fundin leaned forward and rested his forehead against his son’s.

            “Dwalin,” came a soft, lyrical voice beside him and he turned to face his mother, Dwala.

            “Amad,” Dwalin said as he turned to the small woman beside him. She was delicate of features and had soft brown hair with coopery highlights that caught the light and a sweet, soft smile graced her face.

            “Welcome, mim nidoyuh,” his mother said as he leaned down and she lay a kiss on his cheek. She was tiny compared to her youngest son and husband, barely coming up to their shoulders, but her eyes spoke of a sharp mind and an inner strength that could easily match the physical strength of her men.

            “Brother,” Balin said from Dwalin’s side. His parents said they would see him soon and Dwalin as free to visit with is brother.

            Dwalin turned and pulled his brother into a tight embrace. All of Balin’s soft brown hair above the ears was pulled back into a ponytail that was braided while all the rest hung free, while his beard, as always, was loose and hung split, with its customary curl at the ends. Dori was standing next to Balin, his deep auburn hair was braided in two large braids close to the scalp from his forehead to the nap of his neck, there the two braids broke into dozens of smaller ones that cascaded down his back, just as when he was a young man and the toast of the Blue Mountains, while his beard was kept short but very neat and trim. Balin, dressed in ruby red and Dori wearing deep royal purple made quite the striking pair together.

            “Brother,” Dwalin replied, placing both hands on his smaller brother’s shoulders and knocking their foreheads together with a resounding crack. _By the Gods, how he had missed him!”_

            “It is so good to see you after so long,” Balin said with a sigh.

            “As it is you,” Dwalin conceded gladly, bestowing Balin with a warm smile. “You should never have gone to Khazad-dûm.”

            Balin’s smile faded, replaced with remorse. “You are right, brother; I should have listened to you.”

            “Yes, you should have,” Dwalin replied with a bittersweet smile.

            “Can you forgive me?” Balin asked, clearly ashamed.        

            “Don’t, my love,” Dori said, placing a hand on Balin’s arm. “It is over and done with and no one should blame you for what grief drove you to.” Dori gave Dwalin a pointed look, it wasn’t angry but it was still stern and it spoke clearly that Dwalin was being beseeched to let the matter go.

            Dwalin understood the message. “Dori is right,” Dwalin said, laying his forehead on Balin’s as their father had with him. “Do not torture yourself any longer. It matters not.” Balin drew back and while there was still guilt in his eyes, his smile said that he would let it go.

            Dwalin looked around and, though he had been greeted by everyone from the company, he noticed three missing right off.

            “Where is Thorin?” Dwalin asked. “And for that matter, where’re the scamps?”

            “If you mean the brothers Durin,” Dori replied with a smirk. “Then they are with their Uncles in the Ever Green Fields.”

            “Ever Green Fields?” Dwalin was confused.

            “That’s where Hobbits go,” Balin answered quietly.

            “What?!” Dwalin was more than surprised. “How did that happen?” Then Dori’s words hit him. “Wait a minute!” Dwalin got wide-eyed. “ _Uncles_?! As in more than one?!”

            Both Balin and Dori nodded in unison but it was Dori who continued. “It’s a long story and not one to be missed.” Balin laughed, but Dori’s voice dropped to near whisper and became very pensive. “But right now there is someone who is very anxious to see you.”

            Dwalin felt his throat go dry. “Is he very angry with me?”

            Dori and Balin exchanged a startled look before Dori said, “Of course not! I think—”

            “He should be,” Dwalin said quietly as he looked down at his feet.

            “It’s not like that,” Dori stated.

            Dwalin just shook his head. He could feel the fear creeping into his heart again. Lord Mahal’s words came back to him and he knew he couldn’t avoid it, he had to faced it, no matter what, he had to—

            “Dwalin,” came a soft, voice behind him.

            Dwalin closed his eyes as his heart skipped a beat; he knew that voice, that soft, sweet voice that reminded him of water flowing over stone, of a warm breeze through tall grass; and the whispered words of love in the cool, dark of the night.

            “Dwalin—please look at me,” his One whispered as Dwalin felt the velvet touch of a gentle hand on his arm.

            Dwalin allowed himself to be turned like a little Dwarfling and he opened his eyes on the only thing he had wished for the last one hundred and twenty-two years.

            “Ori,” Dwalin whispered. His beautiful, precious Ori—so like when they first met; his cooper colored hair in that ridiculously adorable bowl cut and his braids with the violet colored ribbons that now matched his tunic, his soft, pale skin and those charming freckles that dotted across his nose. Dwalin couldn’t stop his hand from coming up and he traced along Ori’s cheek with the back of his fingers, only to end up cupping the young Dwarf’s jaw gently and running his thumb absentmindedly across Ori’s lips.

            “Dwalin—”

            “Can you ever forgive me, Ori?”

            “Forgive, _you?_ ”

            “I failed you, sanâzyung.”

            “What?”

            “I didn’t listen to what you were saying. Oh I heard the words but not their meaning. I dismissed your pain as foolishness and I placed my oath to the kingdom before you—before the one person that I should have placed above all else. I let you die alone—it was my fault, and I was truly a coward for not following you, and—”

            Ori’s gentle hands came and pressed lightly to Dwalin’s lips; effectively silencing the bear-like warrior.

            “I am the one who should beg forgiveness, Dwalin. I knew you could not follow and yet I let my own grief blind me. I left you behind—I abandoned you, and left you to suffer in pain alone. I always thought you deserved better and that was why you refused to follow me on my foolish path—”

            “How can you say I deserved better? Better than what?”

            “Better than me.”

            “But who could be better than you?”

            “You! You were— _are—_ everything any Dwarf and Dwarrowdam wants to be, to have or to hold! You are the perfect example of Dwarf. Why would you want me?”

            “Because you are _my everything_.” Dwalin could only shake his head; he couldn’t believe Ori had felt this way. How could he have failed his Ori so terribly?

            “When you said you wouldn’t follow me, I thought you had finally decided to be rid of me.”

            “No, sanâzyung. No.”

            “When I called you a coward, I meant it only in that you were tired of standing by me, a Dwarf that no one wanted to have.”

            “I wanted you. I _only ever_ wanted you.”

            Ori chewed on his lips; regret in his eyes. “It seems I was very much mistaken.”

            “Then I failed you,” Dwalin replied. “You should _never_ have had to question your worth; or my love.”

            Dwalin slowly pulled Ori to him and wrapped his powerful arms around the scribe’s slim waist; Ori slipped his hands around Dwalin’s chest, as the warrior leaned forward and captured Ori’s lips with his own. It was blissful and perfect and Dwalin finally felt he was home.

            “I’m so sorry, Dwalin,” Ori whispered miserably when pulled apart. “Can you ever truly forgive me?”  

            “Only under one condition,” Dwalin whisper back. “That you keep me at your side and never let me go again.”

            Ori tightened his arms around Dwalin’s chest and tilted his head up to grace the warrior with a kiss on his cheek. “Those are terms I can live with. Always.”

            “Always,” Dwalin repeated as his lips found Ori’s and for the first time in one-hundred and twenty-two years, his heart became whole.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> HEY - I WOULD LOVE TO SEE SOME ART FOR THIS OR OTHER DIVINE STORIES. IN PARTICULAR I WOULD LOVE TO SEE A YOUNG DWALIN AND HIS ORI


End file.
